


Origin Points

by Missy



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Action, Banter, Community: gulf_aid_now, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael negotiates choppy waters as he tries to bring Sam and Fi together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin Points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [misura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/gifts).



> written for misura, who requested a season 1 tug of war between Fi and Sam for Michael’s affections. She won me in gulf_aid_now ; sorry this has been so thoroughly delayed!! Thank you to Petunia for beta!

Michael had taken no more than two steps across the threshold of his mother’s house when his cell phone rang.

He flipped it open, and recognizing Sam’s number he took it instantly. “Morning, Sam,” he said.

“Huh? It’s six at night,” Sam replied.

“That was a joke.”

“You’ve gotta start watching some Burt Reynolds flicks, Mike,” Sam declared. “I’ve heard better jokes in war documentaries.”

“What’s the problem, Sam?” Michael finally asked, as he ducked inside the Charger.

“I’ve got the specs for the Peterson case,” Sam replied. “Turns out they’re not even zoned for alcohol.”

“So the restaurant is a front,” Michael replied, the response not a question but a confirmation of his fears.

“Could’ve told you something was up when they trucked out that ceviche and served it with red wine.” Michael could almost hear Sam click his tongue. “Total lack of class,” he continued.

“Let’s forget about your appetite,” Michael replied. “We’re gonna have to send someone in to infiltrate our merry band of money launderers. “

“So you’re thinking…”

“…We should get Fiona.”

“Fiona!” Sam complained. “Why the hell would we want to unleash the whirling Dublin dervish on…” Sam paused. Michael could almost see his best friend’s grin. “Mike, you’re smart for an idiot.”

Michael smirked. “Ditto, Sam.”

***

Fiona waited for them under a bridge near Miami Beach, wearing jeans and a black tank top, her hair plaited in a neat braid, and licking a cone of chocolate frozen yogurt. Predictably, she smiled at Michael warmly when she saw the Charger pull up, and completely ignored Sam as she climbed inside.

“So, boys, what are we looking at?” she asked casually.

“Arms trafficking,” Michael declared, showing her a manila folder overflowing with documents. “Holley is trying to get a shipment of AK’s over the border into Cuba. Sam thinks they might be trading in white slaves, too.”

“He’s definitely hiding something,” Sam added. “And what it is ain’t kosher.”

Fiona twitched her nose. “How much nitro will you need?”

“I…don’t think this calls for nitro,” Michael said, turning the key in the ignition.

Fiona smirked at him, snapping her gum. “Everything calls for a little bit of bang, don’t you think?”

Sam snorted. “If that bang is you going out the window, I say yes.”

Fiona regarded him contemptuously. “Did you have to bring your lush along, Michael?”

Michael grimaced. “Guys…”

“Y’know, I asked Mikey the same thing! Only I said ‘psycho’ instead of ‘lush’.” Sam glared at Fi through lowered lashes.

“Psycho? Michael, do you think I’m psychotic?” she sent him a look that said ‘if you do, I’ll make you regret it.”

“You’re strong-willed,” Michael said, spinning the wheel, hoping Sam would hold his tongue.

“What else would you call someone who throws a full vase at an unarmed man?” Sam wondered.

“I wanted to see if you were paying attention – and you had your gun,” Fiona pointed out.

“But you didn’t know I did!” Sam growled. “That’s the vase version of shooting a guy in the back, am I right, Mike?”

Fiona’s voice quavered with anger. “I wanted to see if I could hit you from fifty paces downwind.”

“An unarmed man,” Sam repeated.

“I knew you were armed,” she insisted stubbornly. . “You’re a friend of Michael’s, and any friend of his just loves a loud bang.”

“She’s a keeper, Mikey,” Sam replied, his voice icy.

“He’s a prize, Michael,” Fiona said, boredly, finishing her frozen yogurt.

Michael Westen kept his eyes on the road as Miami peeled by outside his windshield. It was a new day dawning out there. Hopefully, they could keep it together for the next few hours.

***

Michael’s instincts were strong, razor-sharp things, as keen and hardy as his reflexes. They were rarely wrong, and when they were wrong it was usually as miscalculation, mere and facile.

He might have guessed that things with Sam and Fiona would be one of those exceptions. Professional in front of the clients, civil in front of their target, they were at the moment having a verbal knock-down drag out over the proper way to wire a building with explosives.

“C4 under the windows won’t do anything but blow them out,” Fiona declared.

“Right, and they’ll also cover the ground with broken glass and pop Johnny Badtouch’s tires when he pulls out,” Sam reminded her. “Taking out the tires will save bullets.”

“Saint Anne on a Catherine wheel,” Fiona exclaimed, while Sam’s left eyebrow arched. “Why would I want to save bullets?”

“Saint Anne on a Catherine wheel,” Sam repeated, glancing over his shoulder at Michael while taping the bundle of handmade dynamite to the bottom of the sill.

“I prefer unique profanities,” Fiona declared. “At least I don’t constantly bray ‘son of a bitch’ every time I take a wrong turn!”

“You want to argue about this? You really want to argue about this.” Sam shook his head as he tightened the telephone cord they had commandeered as a tripwire. “Can you believe her, Mikey? She really wants to argue about this!”

“You said that five times, Sam,” Michael said, his eyes pressed to the binoculars.

“I don’t believe it!” Sam blustered. “Where the hell did they hide you in Ireland? In Saint Patrick’s potato patch?

“Must you be a racist twit? I went to an all-girls’ convent school,” Fiona said. “And they taught me how to behave like a lady. Where were you raised, Sam, in a beautiful suburban cave?”

“At least my parents taught me how to chew gum with my mouth closed!”

Michael cocked his head. The silent signal.

Suddenly, Sam and Fiona were animated, running to complete their tasks. Michael straightened his collar and stood up tall as they ran to hide. He would handle this part without them, and Michael was glad for that. He could trust himself.

***

And in the clutch they, predictably, all came through. Fiona, her hair streaming red in the wind, hanging out the window as she blasted away their quarry’s bodyguard; Sam clobbering the other guard just before he could get the drop on Michael, who blasted the evildoer away with a single shot from his Walther. It was beautiful; a display of well-oiled teamwork that was a gift from the Gods.

Later that night over a round of celebratory beers at Carlitos, Sam turned to Michael and shook his head. “Dunno how much longer I can stand working with her,” he declared, “but you’ve gotta admire that spunk.”

Fiona was the one who walked Michael back to his place. “Did you have fun?” he asked her casually.

“Yes,” she said. “ But Sam! He won’t listen to reason, even when he’s been proven wrong!”

“But you were both right; they blew out the windows and kept Holley’s men from leaving.”

She walked away, shaking her head. “I really don’t know how much longer I can bear to work with him. And I don’t know how you can still be friends with him after ten years!”

They would live to look back on those words and laugh.


End file.
